


Say You'll Be There

by aloneintherain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU of Battle of New York, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, BAMF Darcy Lewis, Battle of New York (Marvel), Found Family, Friendship, Humor, Multi, Team Feels, Team as Family, adventures in babysitting and world saving, team fic, teenage avengers, teenage tony has infinitely less chill than adult tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It’s like Rowling said</em>, Tony will say later, an asleep Steve’s head lolling on his shoulder. <em>There are some things people can’t experience together without becoming friends. Like mountain trolls, and end of the world situations.</em></p><p> </p><p>Or: how the teenage Avengers meet, fought, and fell into something like a team.</p><p>OR: Darcy and Jane, citywide babysitters extraordinaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say You'll Be There

**Author's Note:**

> I have a weakness for teenage superheroes and found family. This started as a sweet idea, then transformed into this plotty monster seemingly without my consent. 
> 
> The characters' ages:  
> Steve and Tony - 16  
> Thor - He’s an immortal alien, who the fuck knows, honestly. The team guess about 16 or 17.  
> Bruce and Jane - 15  
> Clint, Natasha and Darcy - 14  
> Peter and Loki - 10

 

The future is extraordinarily unimpressive.

In the ‘40s, Steve hadn’t ever thought too heavily about the future. Now that he’s here, though, he’s disappointed, disgust a bitter taste on the back of the throat; the wars, the continued prejudice lurking in the hearts of Americans, the seeping apathy. The lack of flying cars.

It’s disappointing, and disheartening, and Steve is tired of it. Bored of it.

(SHIELD hasn’t allowed him access to the internet. It will take Natasha and a cackling Tony to introduce him. Later, when Steve scrolls through pages and pages of funny cat videos, he’ll feel a little less cheated.)

So, in the middle of what was supposedly an ordinary Wednesday, when every single agent in SHIELD’s headquarters collapses, Steve immediately goes onto high alert.  

He scopes out the entire base—everyone is definitely down, except for him, but when he checks several pulses, he thankfully finds they’re only unconscious, not dead—andfinds his shield. It’s tucked away in a back room, contained behind glass. It’s easy to breaks into, and Steve finds himself pulling on the old red and blue armour out of habit. The shield slots neatly over his back.

Outside, the streets are full of unconscious figures. The road is a mess of crashed cars, where the drivers had suddenly collapsed behind the wheel. Some are a bloody tangle of parts, limp arms poking out of shattered windows. Steve forces himself to push on; he cannot save the dead ones.

The streets are completely silent. Steve is beginning to think he’s the lone conscious New Yorker. 

“Hey, Mister!” 

Or maybe not.

Steve searches for the sound, following it, and comes to a stop beside a teary little boy. He looks so small and alone in such a silent, unmoving environment. 

“Here, buddy,” Steve says softly, kneeling down. “Are you okay?”

The little boy opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by a shrill, shouted, “ _Hey_!” Another very conscious person, a teenage girl, rushes over, almost falling on top of Steve in her haste.

The girl is short with messy brown curls and glasses. She’s panting, and shaking a little. “Oh, my god,” she blurts. “Hi. Hello. _Hi_.”

“Are you hurt?” Steve asks her, switching easily into the role of leader.

“ _I’m_ fine,” she says quickly, “but I’ve got a bunch of kids down the road who are freaking the heck out. When I found them, I thought, ‘hey Darcy, someone should look after these scoundrels, and make sure none of them accidentally walk off a bridge or something!’ No one else seemed to be volunteering for the job, so apparently now I’m babysitting during the apocalypse.”

Her breathing picks up. Steve puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Take some deep breaths,” he orders. “This isn’t the apocalypse.

“I’m glad I found someone,” she admits, “even if you’re just a bad Captain America cosplayer. This is freaky, right? I mean… everyone’s parents seem to have just… collapsed. Suddenly. Everyone—all of New York—is _dead_ , oh my _god_.”

“They’re not dead,” Steve hurries to correct. “Just unconscious. I’m—” Steve wonders if he should tell them he’s the real Captain America; it’s all people seem to care about in this century, after all. Ultimately, he decides against it. The two have been through enough stress without adding this revelation. “I’m Steve. I’m here to help.”

“Darcy,” the girl says, offering him a huge, wobbly grin. “I’m here to panic.”

The boy tugs at Steve’s pant leg, looking up at him with big wet eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah,” Darcy echoes. “ _What’s going on?_ ”

Steve purses his lips. “I don’t know,” he answers, honestly, “but I’m going to find out.”

 

* * *

 

Steve has no idea how to fix this. None.

He’d left the younger boy with Darcy after promising them answers, but now he’s alone in a huge, empty city, no enemies or even allies in sight. Shield in hand, all Steve can do is run through silent New York streets, and jump over slumped adults in his path. 

He rounds a corner, stepping over a limp elderly couple, and almost runs into another person.

He stumbles back a step. The other, a teenage girl, is leant against a brick wall, short red hair in curls, armed with a wicked smirk.

“You’re Captain America,” she says. Her eyes don’t flicker down to his bright uniform. “The real one." 

Steve bristles. “How do you know that?”

“I’m with SHIELD,” she explains. Her boots are thick over black leggings, and the SHIELD symbol shines on both shoulders of her zipped, shapeless jacket. 

“You’re a little young, aren’t you?” 

She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you?” 

“Touché,” he says.

She moves away from the wall to offer a hand to him. Steve takes it. Her handshake is firm, her palm warm and rough against his. “Natasha,” she says. 

“Steve,” he says. “You won’t happen to know what exactly is going on, would you?” 

She huffs out a breath, and he gets the distinct impression that she’s angry at her own ignorance. “No, sorry.”

“Then that makes two of us,” he says easily. “I have absolutely no fucking clue, either.”

She grins a little, almost approving. Steve smiles back, and feels like he’s passed some sort of test. Natasha is shorter than him. Younger, too. Steve finds himself liking her.

“Hey, Steve, you’re from the ‘40s, right?” Natasha says. “Is all the advanced technology tripping you up?” He replies with a little half shrug, and her answering smile is vicious. “Bet SHIELD hasn’t let you in the Quinjet is.”

If he wasn’t listening before, he certainly is now. “That wouldn’t happen to be some kind of flying car would it? Because let me tell you, the 21st century is the biggest let down in that regard.”

Natasha smirks knowingly. “It’s something like that, yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Loki!” Thor shouts against the howling wind.  

His brother stands surrounded by collapsed mortals, hands raised, body shaking with manic laughter. 

“Brother!” Thor tries. “Stop this. Please. Come home with me, it is not too late!”

Loki’s skin flickers between a foreign blue and his usual sickly paleness. The tesseract sits in his outstretched palm, sending blue jolts of power coursing over him. His eyes have been consumed, pupils and whites eclipsed by a haunting, glowing blue. 

Thor had been exiled little over a week ago. This is not the younger brother he remembers leaving behind.

“Brother! Please!”

Loki does not listen.  

The former shell of his brother — for surely, this ethereal being swathed in destructive energy is not his baby brother — swivels his hollow gaze to Thor. Thor feels a jolt of unease, another pleading shout curled on his tongue, and then chokes, winded, as Loki sends him flying back with an easy wave of his hand. 

Thor’s impact leaves a dent in the side of a building. It does not gravelly hurt him, but his skin is still soft, and the shattering glass leaves tiny marks along his exposed arms, tiny beads of blood dripping down his forearms like rain.

Loki throws his head back, and the tesseract glows brightly. With a swirl of his cape and a loud howl of wind, his brother is gone. 

Thor cannot breathe. Loki— his baby brother—has become...

“Hey! Hey, there! Are you okay?”  

Thor tips his head up at the voice. A Midgardian looms over him—a blond man of Asgardian stature, cloaked in a strange red, white and blue armour. The stranger grimaces as he braces himself against the onslaught of wind, knees locked and circle shield held aloft. 

The young man is holding a hand to Thor, offering. His eyes are kind.

“C’mon,” the stranger beckons. “Let’s get you out of here.”

A crude spacecraft hovers above them, suspended in mid-air, waiting for them. Thor chances a glance at where his younger brother had been— still gone, the pavement under which he stood cracked and dented— and then back up at the blond boy.

“I’m Steve,” he says. “I want to help, if you’ll let me.” 

Thor says, “Thank you.”

He takes the offered hand, and lets Steve help him up. Steve places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, smiling, and Thor lets him lead them away. 

(Thor doesn’t know that that is where it begins, that this hand upon his shoulder belongs to one that will not only fight beside him, but will also lead him into battle, and into a new life.)

 

* * *

 

 

Steve guides the other boy to the flying airship (the thing is easily the coolest part of future; Steve is thoroughly impressed). 

Thor’s relatively normal looking, if a little larger and muscular than the average human teenager. His hair is an ordinary, if rather striking, golden hue, his eyes wide and blue. The blood along his arms is red. 

He doesn’t look like an alien…

“Are you sure he’s…?” Steve mutters to Natasha, who laughs at him and doesn’t answer. 

Steve decides that he doesn’t really care. For all he knows, Thor might have tentacles hidden under his weird armour or an unquenchable thirst for horse blood, but still, Steve doesn’t care. Thor’s eyes are bright, wide with adrenaline, and shining with something like honesty and grief. Steve recognises that. Trusts that. 

He thinks he trusts Natasha, too. He knows now that she’d stolen the Quinjet when everyone around her had collapsed, and taken to the skies to search out answers. Then, she’d found Steve. 

Apparently, SHIELD had some kind of ‘contingency plan’ in place. Based on what Natasha said, it involves Steve, and Thor, and possibly others. A team. Steve is sure that, had the circumstances been different, it would be someone other than the redheaded fourteen year old introducing them to the mission.

“Thor,” Natasha greets when Thor approaches the driver’s seat. She takes one hand off the wheel to offer a tiny wave, but otherwise doesn’t turn away from the windscreen. “Good to see you’ve joined the ‘save the world’ committee.” 

“Hello,” Thor says, uncertain. He doesn’t ask how she knows his name. “And I am… Glad to be here?”

Natasha laughs again. “Welcome to Earth, big guy,” she says.

 

* * *

 

 

They still have no idea what they’re doing.

(“How do we wake everyone up?” Steve asks. Thor looks startled, before shrugging hugely. 

“I do not know,” Thor says.

“Oh, good,” Steve says. “We’re screwed then.”)

All communication is down; NYPD, SHIELD, whatever other secret agencies Natasha is attempting to get a hold of through her Stark phone. Nothing. Radio silence. 

In lieu of anything more constructive to do, they set about tracking down conscious members of New York. Loki is unreachable, Thor had vouched with a solemn gaze, and there are no other obvious conflicts to tackle. 

So, civilians.

Roaming the city, they discover streets piled full of the unconscious. Hundreds of them, thousands, laying limp, sprawled along the ground like the dead. Natasha punches something into her Stark phone and grimaces.

“It’s not just the city,” she says. “The entire country’s been effected.”

“Fuck,” Steve says.

Thor sighs and pats Steve on the shoulder with his one free hand. “Verily,” Thor agrees. 

A child they’d found—a little girl, huddled into Thor’s side—looks up at Steve ( _fuck_ , Steve thinks again, _swearing in front of toddlers. Not good, Rogers_ ). She tries to say something, perhaps about Steve’s abhorrent language, but she can’t manage the words through her sobs. 

Thor shushes her quietly, one broad hand stroking her hair calmly. She pushes her wet face into Thor’s chest once again, her tiny shoulders shaking. She looks only about two or three years old; they had found her wailing inside a tiny cafe, her parents sprawled lifeless beside her. Thor hadn’t hesitated before striding over and scooping her into his arms, murmuring calming words into her hair.

It’s how they’ve found most conscious civilians. Sometimes crying, sometimes screaming in a panic. Always parentless. Always underage.

“Do you hear that?” Steve asks sharply, looking up. “It’s…another Quinjet…?”

Steve looks around, just in time to see a red and gold blur rocket around the corner, zipping past them. Steve tenses, and raises his shield. Thor angles the girl behind him, his hammer at the ready.

Natasha, however, just squints and narrows her eyes. She cups her hands to her mouth and shouts, “STARK!”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Tony begins. It took Natasha no time at all to talk the older teenager into joining them. He, too, was confused and afraid, and had jumped at the chance to talk to other people who vaguely knew what the fuck they were doing.

Tony has a box of donuts held in one gauntlet. He munches idly on one with pink frosting, and says around a full mouth, “You know me _how_ , exactly?

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Who doesn’t know you, Stark?” 

“I’m obnoxiously famous, this is true, but…” Tony waves his hands over himself, or, more accurately, at the robotic armour he has encased himself in. “My iron pyjamas? Totally not public information, so spill.”

“SHIELD,” she says. Tony stares at her blankly, and she smiles knowingly. “I’ll tell you later.”  


“Or you could tell me now. Or, hey, you could tell me what’s going on, because seriously, what the hell?” He gestures around them, at the silent New York street, at the limp bodies. “Seriously. WHAT THE HELL?” 

Steve shrugs. “We don’t know.”

Tony looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Woah, what’s with the bad cosplay there, Captain _Patriotism_ —”

“ _Me_? You’re wearing iron underpants and ridiculous sunglasses—”

Tony draws back, looking legitimately offended. “I’ll have you know my iron underpants and ridiculous sunglasses look awesome, thank you very much—”

“Awesome is one word for it,” Steve says. He eyes Tony critically. “People drop unconscious all over New York, and what? You go out for donuts?”

The pair have drawn closer, breathing in each other’s air, faces scrunched up in annoyance. “Listen up, Spangles,” Tony starts.

“May we please focus,” Thor asks, beseeching. 

Tony points a finger at him. “Muscles is right! Here, you earned a prize, big guy.” He offers the box of donuts to Thor, who takes one dusted with icing sugar and hands it to the little girl. She takes it with huge, wet eyes.  

“Now,” Tony continues, “game plan? Anyone? No? Do you guys even know what’re you doing? Honestly. There has to be someone more competent I can talk to. Are there any other weirdos in costumes running around?” 

“No,” Steve says. 

From the direction of the ceiling, someone laughs, and offers a contradictory, “Yes!” 

A small boy in a bright red and blue costume drops down beside Thor and his teary bundle. The little girl shrieks, and Thor, for all his majestic muscles and princely manner, starts.

“Hiya,” the boy says cheerily. They all tense at his unexpected presence, but the kid ignores them, gaze zeroing in on Tony and the box of donuts. “Ooh! Can I—?” 

The boy reaches out to snatch a donut. Before he can take one, Natasha leaps across the space and tackles him. He tries to dodge, almost succeeds in darting away, but she catches him by the back of his suit. Natasha flips him over, pins him to the ground. He wiggles, but she holds him fast. 

He’s quick. Natasha will always be quicker.

“Owwww,” the boy murmurs feebly into the pavement. 

“Who are you?” Natasha demands. 

“Geez, lady, what’s your deal—” Natasha twists his arm back further and he wails. “Ow, _ow_! Okay, okay! I’m Spider-Man!”

“Spider-Man?” Steve mutters quietly, glancing between the boy, Tony, and Thor. Was it really this common for people to wear flamboyant costumes in the future? 

“‘Man?’” Tony scoffs. 

“Yes,” the boy says seriously. “Spider-Man. The toughest, awesomest hero this side of New York.” 

Natasha pulls at his limbs again, and Spider-Man’s cry echoes through the empty street. Thor pushes the little girl’s head into his shoulder when she whimpers, cradling her close.

“Not a good enough answer,” she snaps. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just here to collect crying kids, alright?” Spidey says, defensive. “I tried going after this freaky guy glowing blue on Fifth Ave but he’s way powerful, and well. That didn’t end well. Then Iaccidentally ran into these two awesome ladies. They were rounding up panicked kids and looking after them, so I ended up joining.” Spidey shrugs into the pavement. “So, yeah. I’m helping, same as you.”

Tony squints at the costumed kid. 

“You know,” Tony says to Natasha. “I think I’ve seen him in the papers. One of those vigilante types. Spider-Kid, they’re calling him. He’s legit, red.”

(“Spider-Man,” the boy whispers petulantly to himself. “It’s cooler; Spider- _Man_.”)  

Natasha lets go of Spider-Kid, and moves away, letting him jump to his feet. She continues to watch the younger kid like a hawk. 

Spider-Kid points at the little girl, who’s looking at the obnoxious colours in his costume with curious eyes, icing sugar all over her face. “Y’know, those ladies can take care of her,” he says. “The babysitters extraordinaire! They’ll take good care of her. Promise.” 

Thor seems reluctant, but eventually agrees to hands over the little girl. He knows he cannot protect her _and_ save the city one-handed. “You must protect her with your life,” he tells Spider-Kid solemnly.   

“Um,” Spider-Kid says. 

“With _your life,_ ” Thor presses. “See that this is done.”

Spider-Kid, vastly intimidated by the princely demigod, nods quickly and scoops the girl up. He holds her carefully on his hips, young hands strong and capable over precious cargo. Thor nods with approval.

“I’ll—me and the other two girls—we’ll look out for the conscious kids,” Spider-Kid promises. “You guys… you guys save everyone else, okay?” 

Spider-Kid jumps onto the bonnet of a car. He pauses, glancing back. With one, smooth motion, he shoots a web at Tony’s box of donuts, ignores the older boy’s squawk of indignation, and steals the deserts away. 

“Thief!” Tony cries. 

“Thanks for the snacks!” Spider-Kid says. 

Tony shakes a fist at him. “You’re a menace!”

“That’s what they all say!” 

With that, child and box in hand, Spider-Kid takes off, swinging through the city like a modern day Tarzan. They stare after him, transfixed by his fluid movements. 

“I did not expect New York to be this strange,” Tony mutters. “I ditched my god-awful parents to come here and try out the food, not to be around weirdos in costume, stuck in the epicentre of the apocalypse. Fuck my life.”

“Agreed,” Steve says. The two exchange knowing glances, and little smirks. Their previous animosity ebbs, their immediate distrust of one another fading into something like camaraderie.

( _It’s like Rowling said,_ Tony will say later, an asleep Steve’s head lolling on his shoulder. _There are some things people can’t experience together without becoming friends. Like mountain trolls, and end of the world situations._ )

“Hey,” Natasha says to Tony, “want to see our flying jet?” 

Tony’s head snaps to her, eyes wide. “Flying jet?!”

“Is this how you make friends with everyone?” Steve jokes. Natasha ignores him.

“Yep,” she says. “I stole it.”

Tony grins, his smile huge and full of teeth. “I think I’m going to like you, red.”

 

* * *

 

Thor settles into the passenger seat. His sharp eyes search for some hint of glowing blue in the jumble of skyscrapers and high rising buildings that sits behind the windscreen. 

Tony bounces on his tiptoes, vibrating with excitement. He wants desperately to climb into the guts of the Quinjets, pull it apart, figure out how it works, but settles for investigating the controls. Natasha and Steve hover back, standing side by side, watching Tony’s energy with tired amusement.

“This team,” Steve says, as Tony gets down on hands and knees and peers under the dash, poking at the wires hidden there. “The one SHIELD was getting together. Was I originally in it?” 

Natasha nods, yes. 

“Were you? Were Thor and Tony?” 

“Thor was being considered,” Natasha says honestly. “But the rest of us, no. We were all too young. Liabilities. You were the exception, Mr. Historical Icon.” 

“And now?”

Natasha is quiet for a long moment. Their shoulders brush as they lean against the same wall. Thor is unmoving, something in his gaze unbearably sad, yet determined. Tony is peering at the controls with an intensity and intelligence that easily surpasses that of any adult Steve has ever met. 

“Now,” Natasha says finally, “they’re stuck with us. We’re the only option the country has.”

“What were we called?” Tony asks. Natasha and Steve startle, surprised, and he scoffs. “What? You think I couldn’t hear you two gossiping like old maids?” He thumps something on the control panel, just to watch the engine below stutter. “So. Team name. What was it?” 

“The Avengers,” Natasha says.

It is Thor that turns this time, shaking off the remnants of his grief. His expression reflects the disgust of his surrounding teammates. “That is…” Thor begins, at a loss.

“Dumb,” Tony finishes.

“Yeah, well, it’s like Natasha said.” Steve shrugs. He smiles at the three, something rye and humorous and no less sincere in his gaze. “I guess it’s the only opinion we have.”

“The Avengers?” Natasha asks. 

Steve nods. “The Avengers.”

Tony sighs hugely, and says, unenthusiastically, “Yay team.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Stark?”

Tony spins in the driver’s chair, head tipped back, eyes shut. It’s been a little over an hour since he’d joined the ragtag group of teenagers. Since then, Steve and Tony have been elected to stay with the Quinjet, while Natasha and Thor venture deeper into the city. It seems as though both of them are desperately looking for something. Someone. 

And Tony is bored. 

“Yeah, Rogers?”

“You know how you said you wanted something to happen?”

“Get to the point, red, white, and blue.”

“Well. Look out the window.”

There is something about Steve’s words—stilted, almost strangled—that makes Tony frown and obligingly stand. He peers out the windscreen, searching for what has Steve standing frozen, mouth hanging open, eyes huge. 

“What’re you…?” Tony begins, then freezes himself, adopting his own horrified expression. “What THE EVER LOVING—”

 

* * *

 

“It’s not that bad,” Thor says idly, concentrating on strapping his armour on, and tying up his boots.  

Tony waves his hands around. The manic look in his eyes has not dimmed, but instead increased, making the teenager look vaguely unstable. 

“THERE ARE ALIENS?!” Tony shouts, pointing at the windscreen. “COMING OUT OF A HOLE IN THE SKY? And you call that NOT THAT BAD?” 

Thor shrugs. “On Asgard, other species attempting to invade are but an afternoon’s entertainment. Asgardians are a mighty people; all inferior civilisations who try us find themselves crushed mercilessly.”

“Oh, you deal with alien invasions all the time?” Steve says, nodding to himself, attempting to look more composed than he feels. “Awesome. Cool. That’s not freaky _at all_.” Steve scrubs a hand over his face, and turns away, muttering to himself under his breath, “Rogers, what the hell have you wandered into? Imagine Bucky’s face if he could see you now…”

“Drop in five,” Natasha calls from the drivers seat.

“This is insane,” Tony says to the room at large.

Natasha smiles at the older teenager. “Sorry that this isn’t the party you were hoping for, college boy.”

Natasha and Thor are having entirely too much fun with the situation. Tony laughs a little hysterically and rocks back on his heels, appearing moments from a full blown break down. Steve stands off to the side, looking increasingly done with life.

“The future,” Steve says bluntly. “You guys don’t have flying cars, but sure, an alien invasion, that’s something you can do.”

Natasha offers him a grin. “Ready to kick some butt, Captain?” she asks. 

Steve adjusts his hold on his shield, and readies himself beside Thor, rolling his shoulders. “As I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Thor claps him on the shoulder. “It will be a great adventure.”

Steve offers him a strained smile—in the background, Tony is bent in half, laughter bubbling forth from his trembling mouth, and Natasha watches on, amused. Steve ignores Tony, thinks if he looks at him for too long, he’ll join him in his hysteria. Instead, he focusses on Thor, on his steady confidence, his strong hand warm against Steve’s shoulder. 

“I hope so,” Steve says.

The quintet’s doors open, wind and sunlight howling into the ship. Thor beams at Steve and runs into the sky, hammer held aloft. Steve takes a deep breath, relaxes his shoulders, and jumps after his new teammate.

 

* * *

 

The sky has opened up above them. The swirling vortex of purple and shimmering black is a harsh contrast against soft, cloudless blue. 

Beneath the screaming invasion, Thor and Steve tear through crowds of alien soldiers. They’re a seamless team—turning as the other turns, protecting each others flank. It reminds Steve of the other teenagers that made up the Howling Commandos. 

“Blue energy spotted,” Natasha says on the comms, as Steve rolls beneath the arching swing of Thor’s hammer, and takes out the two aliens about to strike at Thor’s back. “Other side of the city.”

Thor’s grip on his hammer tightens. “Loki.”

“You go,” Steve says. There are a group of children caught in the backstreets, trapped by the lurking presence of the aliens. Someone has to fight to fight through the aliens and guide them to safety. “I’ll stay.” 

“There are too many,” Thor says, quietly. “You cannot do it alone.”

A laugh like a bell and the faint thwip of webs announces the arrival of Spider-Kid, crouched high on the jutting balcony of a building. “Who says he’ll be alone?” he says. “Come on, don’t tell me this party is invite only.” 

“Go, Thor,” Steve instructs. “I can handle this.”

“We can handle this,” Spidey says, jumping to land between the two blonds. He only comes up to their shoulders, all childishly small hands and feet, baby fat lingering on his face and neck and torso. 

 An alien lunges at Spidey’s back, and he flips smoothly over it, using his feet to knock the thing unconscious. Steve has always known small people possessive some of the greatest strength. Spider-Kid seems to only cement that knowledge.

“Fight well, Captain,” Thor says. With a nod, and an acknowledging “Spider-Kid”, he leaps into the sky, red cape billowing behind him. 

“Spider-MAN,” the boy shouts after him. “It’s _Spider_ —he’s gone isn’t he?”

Steve throws his shield, punches out another alien, and catches his shield on the rebound. “Yep.”

 

* * *

 

The blue energy is merely a wisp of smoke by the time Thor arrives. He trudges back to the Quinjet with bent shoulders, his eyes haunted.  

Tinkering with the gauntlet of his suit, Tony tries to avoid looking at the alien teenager. He is acutely aware of the shit storm he’s flown straight into. The shouts of his parents, their complete dismissal of his pain and his accusations that Obie had betrayed them, sits fresh in his mind.

The silence within the jet feels oppressive. Unbearable. Tony always has hated silence.

“You,” Tony says, stabbing a finger at Thor, who raises an eyebrow at the little Midgardian. “Blondie.”

“Thor,” Thor corrects. 

“Turn the radio on, pal,” Tony says, ignoring him, “and turn it right up loud. Just press— yeah, press that button below and then— ah, there you go, you got it.”

Thor smiles at Tony, and Tony smiles back, and the radio sings, 

_If you wanna be my lover—_

“Oh no,” Tony says.

_—you gotta get with my friends!_

Tony makes a face. “Ew. Change it, pronto. Let’s see if we can get Led Zepplin on here, yeah?”

Thor makes a move to switch to a different album, but Natasha snatches his hand in midair. She stares at Thor for a long moment, before saying, quietly, “I like this song.”

Thor retracts his hand slowly. He does not change the song.

“Aw, c’mon!” Tony whines. “We have to have cool music! Action music! We’re fighting to save the _world_ , we need _setting_.”

Thor smiles at the radio, ignoring Tony.

“This song is enjoyable!” Thor declares. “I like it!”

“Thank you, Thor,” Natasha says. 

“Traitor,” Tony murmurs. “Goddamn intergalactic foreigners. Hmph.” 

The trio falls silent. They let the ship fill only with the sounds of the singing radio (“Yo I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want—!”) and metal scraping on metal as Tony’s deft fingers work. Softly, Natasha hums under her breath.

They retrieve Steve several songs into the Spice Girls album. The teenager enters the jet to the sounds of _Say You’ll Be There_. Tony is unabashedly singing a duet with Natasha, previous misgivings gone. They sing with gusto, half shouting the lyrics, radio cranked up loud. Thor just looks happy to be there.  

“Um,” Steve says. His shield is covered in gooey alien blood, a demigod is shrugging at him, and pop music seems to be the backing track to the end of world. 

The 21st century continues to amaze.

 

* * *

 

A second smear of blue is spotted. Thor takes to the sky, ignoring Natasha’s warnings that this too is a false lead.

Thor contacts them later via a prompt text to Natasha’s phone: 

_Have possible location. Meet at following co-ordinates. — Thor_

“Wow,” Tony says, whistling to himself as he peers at the screen over Natasha’s shoulder. “Isn’t the guy, like, some kind of viking alien prince? But he can use a phone?”

Natasha sends off a quick ‘OK.’ Tony steals her phone—Natasha sighs and lets him—and sends, _How do you know how to use an Earth phone??????_

Thor’s response comes less than a minute later: _Midgardian technology is vastly inferior to Asgardian tech, but my human girlfriend was able to teach me :)_

“Girlfriend?” Tony asks hoarsely, staring at the text, emoji and all, with wide eyes. “He’s been on Earth for, what? A WEEK?”

“He’s cooler than you, Stark,” Natasha says airily. “Accept it.” 

Tony slouches in his seat, bottom lip jutting out dramatically. “Life,” he declares, “is unfair.”

 

* * *

 

 

They land in the middle of a deserted street and step out of the Quinjet. Thor greets them with a solemn grin, a shinning phone in one hand. (“Is that an IPHONE?” Tony hisses with disgust.) 

Steve returns Thor’s smile, and jogs away to scout the immediate area. Natasha slinks back into the ship to retrieve her own phone, Thor on her heels.

“An iPhone,” Tony mutters to himself. He finds himself alone in the street, and the silence is eery and unnerving. “If we survive this whole thing, I’m going to buy his dumb girlfriend a dozen of the latest Stark phones. That’ll show _her_ …” 

Tony’s head snaps up at the sound of cracking pavement. His eyes go wide, and he stumbles back several paces.

Tony turns and shouts over his shoulder, “ _Guys_? A little _HELP_?” 

He receives no response. Across the street, the hulking mass of green continues to advance, muscles rippling, huge hands balled into fists. Tony decides suddenly that he should never have left Malibu, asshole parents be damned. 

A little kid tears out of a side alley. He can’t be older than 8, his hoodie’s left sleeve torn, tears still wet on his face.

Mean ’n’ Green freezes when he sees the child, and shifts back on his haunches to stare. It groans, low and questioning, and makes to move forward. Its fists have loosened into open-palmed hands. 

The child zeroes in on the monster, and _screams,_ before turning and bolting back the way he’d came.

The monster’s face screws up, like a dogs when exposed to loud, high-pitched sounds, and shakes his head, whining sadly. 

“Oh,” Tony says.

The monster, roused by Tony’s soft noise, turns its attention back to him. Its closer enough for Tony to see its eyes—brown, round pupils, a little bloodshot, a little frightened. Huh.

“Hey there,” Tony greets, voice pitched low. What is he _doing_? He’s going to get himself killed.

The monster sniffs the air, testing it for Tony’s scent. Tony continues, “What’re you doing here, big guy? Big city like this, it’s full of annoying little people, right?”

The monster—the person? Alien? God, Tony doesn’t know—frowns at him. It’s not an angry frown, so Tony assumes his bones aren’t going to be ground into dust to make its bread. 

“I’m Tony,” he tries. “Who are you?” The monster looks confused, shaking his head. “You don’t know, huh? That’s alright.”

The monster opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks Tony up and down, surveying, assessing, and opens it again. “Not Bruce. Hulk.”

What even… 

“Hulk?” Tony echoes. 

“Hulk.”

Tony smiles, showing off smooth white teeth, and says, “Please to meet you, Hulk.”

On the other side of the block, roused by the sound of the child’s scream, Steve bolts around the corner. He stops, swears furiously, and darts back the way he’d come.

Steve hears a warning growl from the beast, and Tony’s voice, loud and placating, from behind the corner. “Hey, hey, big guy. That’s Steve. He’s a friend. He’s safe.”

The thing growls again—Steve had gotten only a quick look at it, but what he had seen had been disconcerting to say the least; huge and green, hunched close to the ground with Tony barely metres away, head titled up to speak gently to the beast—and Tony calls out, “Hey, Steve! Come meet our new friend!” 

Steve peers around the corner. Carefully steps out. Raises one hand in an awkward, greeting wave. “Um. Hello?”

“He’s a friend,” Tony reminds the Hulk when he growls and shifts toward Steve. Alarm bells go off in Steve’s head.

“Tony,” Steve hisses, stepping closer. “Get away from that thing.” 

“No…” Tony squints at the Hulk, head cocked, like he’s trying to decipher some kind of puzzle. “No, Steve, I think he’s… I think he’s…”

“ _What_? Tony—”

Tony smiles, and the Hulk falters. It’s strange, seeing something so large deflate like that, confused at the soft expression offered to him.

“Hulk lost,” it rumbles. “Puny Bruce scared by the noises, Hulk not know what to do.” 

Steve drops his fighting stance, blinking up at the Hulk. “Oh,” he says. He sidesteps closer, hesitant. 

“You don’t need to worry about Steve,” Tony explains. He gestures at Steve. “This guy? So, _so_ harmless. He’s all about protecting people and freedom and—and red, blue and white tights. Harmless, really.”

“Safe?” Hulk asks tentatively.

Like Tony, Steve has a sense for these things. Something in his gut is spurring him on, drawing him toward the hunched beast of a man, like a satellite orbiting the Earth, even as his brain shouts at him to _run_. 

Steve might not be as impulsive as Tony, but there’s something about the Hulk’s sad eyes, his skittish stance and nervous hunched shoulders that makes Steve want to reach out and help.

“Safe,” Steve agrees.

The Hulk drops his chin, staring at Tony and Steve with big eyes, like he’s never seen anything so remarkable. “Never been safe before,” Hulk says.  

They’re too focussed on the Hulk, and neither of them notice the approaching alien. It fires at them, and Steve doesn’t think. Working on instinct, he commando rolls across the area, stopping in front of the hulk, and raises his shield. The laser bounces off of the Vibranium, ricocheting to knock the alien out. 

The Hulk looks down at him in wonder. “Steve,” he says. The word sounds awkward in his mouth. 

“You okay?” Steve asks, straightening up. He’s addressing both Tony and the Hulk, eyeing them for injuries.

“Friend,” says the Hulk. He sounds searching, imploring.

Steve nods. “Friend.”

When Natasha and Thor emerge from the Quinjet, they find Steve and Tony sat on the curb. A young boy, near their own age, lies naked on the asphalt. A jacket has been thrown over his legs, proving him some decency.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” Tony snaps. He’s still a little sore at being left alone to meet the Hulk by himself.

“Sorry,” Natasha says. She doesn’t look in the least bit sorry. 

“Aye,” Thor says, “we were distracted. Natasha was introducing me to the wildly entertaining _Angry Birds._ ” 

Steve stares flatly at them both, the very picture of unimpressed exhaustion, and Tony buries his face in his hands and laughs, the sound shaky and high. By their booted feet, Bruce sleeps on, safer than he’s felt in years.

 

* * *

 

They escort a sleepy Bruce back to the Quinjet. They find him spare pants, a spare SHIELD t-shirt,and a seat to collapse into. His eyes skitter around the jet, paranoid, all the lines in his body tense and anxious. He’s filthy, hair greasy and too long, the bags under his eyes huge and purpling. He flinches away when Thor moves to quickly.  

Thor notices, of course he does, and stills his exuberant movements. He makes sure to move slower, staying within Bruce’s line of sight. (Later, Thor will be instrumental in Bruce’s recovery. They all will. Steve has already lain the seeds of trust. Tony is comforting, small and similarly distrustful of adults. Dual anxiety thrums beneath their skin, and Bruce can already tell Tony is safe, and familiar in a way even his own body sometimes isn’t.) 

Tony stares at the sight they all make. Both strength and exhaustion present in their blinking faces. Still, they’re only teenagers. Most of them aren’t fully grown, and baby fat softens their features. 

“Wait,” Tony realises slowly, blinking at them, “if Loki’s planned on wiping out all of humanity, then… why are _we_ still walking and talking?”  

There’s a beat, and then;

“Wait,” Natasha says, “we’re—” 

In the same second, Tony says, “Oh, my GOD—”

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve says, like a punch to the stomach. 

“Well, this is humiliating,” Tony continues. He’s annoyed at himself for not realising this early; it’s so _obvious_. “Saving the day because we can’t legally drink. _Wow_.”  

“Are you implying,” Bruce says from his seat, back angled to the wall, “that the reason we’re still conscious is because…”

“We’re underage,” Tony says. “Yeah.”

The ensuing silence within the Quinjet, is broken as the floor beneath their feet moves. The jet tips to the right, and they’re sent sprawling, scrambling to grab purchase. Bruce startles awake as the momentum shoves him against a metal wall.  

The Quinjet tips to the left, and they’re sent falling once more. Tony swears, and says, “I thought I’d give anything to be on the _Enterprise_ fighting Klingons, but _I take it back._ If this is what it’s like, Kirk can take his space heroism and shove it up his—” 

Thor cuts across his inane chatter, with a harsh, “Loki is here.”

They scramble outside, and are met with a group of alien, guns raised, Loki standing at the head of the scattered warriors. His eyes are still iced over a luminous blue, and his feet hover millimetres from the ground. 

“Brother,” Thor says. His voice is low and gravelly, both solemn and miserable all at once.

Loki says nothing, simply raises a hand, gesturing at the five teenagers, and says something in a rough, guttural language, foreign to even Thor’s ears.

The aliens lunge forward at once, a cohesive attack, and the teenagers scatter apart. Steve throws his shield, and it rebounds, knocking out aliens as it goes; Natasha shoots out aliens; Thor darts after the retreating, glowing form of his brother. 

Tony tries to double-back into the Quinjet for the iron armour he’d so foolishly taken off, but is met by the mean face of an alien warrior.

“Hey there, big guy,” Tony says, trying not to sound as strangled as he feels. “We’re all friends here, right? Right?” Tony stumbles back several paces, and the alien advances. “I’ll call CPS on your ass, I swear—!” 

The alien raises a fist encased in metal plating. Tony flinches back, but before he is struck, someone shorter ducks in front of him, and socks the alien clean on the jaw. 

“Natasha, holy _hell_ ,” Tony says. His heart is beating frantically in his chest. 

Natasha grabs by his shirt collar and hauls him clean out of the battlefield. Tony glances back, and sees their new friend crouched over, bent in half. Bruce’s skin is flushed green. His limbs bulge, expanding, the Hulk beginning to burst forth.

“Steve—” Tony begins. 

“Can handle himself,” Natasha cuts him off. A quick glance backwards confirms that; Steve, clearing through the crowd of aliens with unbridled strength, the Hulk smashing and attacking by his side. “It’s Loki we need to worry about. He’s sent Thor on a wild goose chase.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring, then.”

Natasha stills, and Tony almost runs into her. She cocks her head slightly to the side, before darting without warning into a side alley, climbing the fire escape with quick legs.  

“Natasha?” Tony hisses. “ _Natasha_?!”

He followers her. Partially because he doesn’t want her to get hurt on her own, mostly because he’s without his nearly indestructible armour, and she’s a badass. If he’s going to be attacked by aliens or crazed, overly powerful kids, he wants to be with the badass when that happens.

Hence, Natasha.

“Why,” Tony pants as he follows Natasha further up the metal stairs. “Why are you climbing up a random fire escape?”

“Because someone…” Natasha squints upward, her steps slowing. “Someone might be here…”

“Who?” Tony hisses. Natasha doesn’t answer. Tony whistles softly at her, snapping his fingers to gain her attention. “Lassie? What is it? Timmy trapped in the well again?”

Natasha sees something above that Tony hasn’t a hope of spotting. She tackles Tony, and an arrow sticks into the brick wall, where Tony’s head had been moments before.

Natasha rolls them over the edge of the fire escape, just as a second arrow is let loose. The tip is sharp, and shallowly nicks Tony’s forearm.

Tony falls onto the street, Natasha on top of him. He groans weakly. “Dammit, Natasha.”

She rolls off of him smoothly. He climbs to his feet, considerably less graceful.

“I forget how good you are, sometimes,” Natasha says. “I thought you were on the fire escape. Then, I thought maybe you were on the roof. I hadn’t considered you were on street level all along.” 

A boy emerges from behind a dumpster. He has a huge bow in hand, a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. He’s wearing viciously purple sneakers, and a plum shirt pushed up around his elbows. His jeans have rips in him. His blond hair is in disarray. He’s a mess. He’s terrifying. 

He’s younger than most of them, closer to Natasha’s age than Tony’s. He’d look like a child, with the bandaids over his knee and on his nose, if he didn’t look so deadly, a weapon held expertly in his hands. His eyes are cold and lifeless.

“Don’t hurt him, Tony,” Natasha instructs. Her eyes bore into the boy’s. Her whole demeanour is intense. 

“Look, red,” Tony starts. An arrow is readied in the boy’s bow. Its tip angles towards Tony. “I know you carry a gun, just shoot—”

“Don’t,” Natasha repeats. This time the steel in her voice is razor sharp, threatening.

“He’s pointing an arrow at my face,” Tony says. “At _my face_.”

Natasha’s gaze is still focussed on the boy, shoulders drawn up and tense. “I don’t care.”

“He’s going to _shoot me._ ” The boy moves, adjusts his grip on the bow so his aim is more accurate, and Tony lets out a tiny whimper he’ll later deny. 

Natasha inches forward. Tony thought she was like marble, hard and impossible to melt, but now he can see how she shakes. She’s terrified. Her hands a trembling mess, her red curls shaking with the force of her tremors.

“Clint,” she says.

Purple Kid doesn’t move. His bow is still pulled back, ready to take Tony out with the barest of movements.

“Clint,” she says again, softer, an emotional lilt to her voice. “C’mon, I know you’re not that far gone. It’s me. It’s Nat.”

He flinches, shifts back a little.

“Clint, c’mon,” Natasha urges. “Come back.” 

The boy falters, then shakes his head furiously, as though he has water in his ears.

“Wha—” he slurs. His eyes are far-off, clouded like the blind, and he stares dumbly at Tony, arrow dropping to point at the ground rather than the sweaty genius. 

It is not enough—already, Natasha can see the magic strengthening, trying to take control over its puppet once more—but it is something. She lunges at him, tackling him to the ground.

Tony yelps and scrambles away from the tangle of limbs. “Holy shit!”

Natasha and Clint scramble on the ground, biting and scratching and kicking. It looks like two kids having a tantrum. It looks deadly. 

Something explodes in the distance, and Tony points in its vague direction. “I’m going to—” he says. Clint’s hands are buried in Natasha’s curls, yanking harshly. She bites him, hard, and he yowls as blood gushes around Natasha’s teeth. “Oh-my-god,” Tony says. “Yeah—okay, I’m going to go—do that. That thing.” 

Tony shoots one last look at the two. For all his intellectual prowess, Tony knows that if he tried to interfere he’d be dead before he could touch either of them. “Please don’t kill each other,” he says, before turning and dashing back onto the street.

 

* * *

 

Tony doesn’t find the source of the explosion, but he does find Steve and the Hulk. Half of the alien crowd has been defeated, but another platoon has arrived, threatening to overwhelm the two. 

“COVER ME!” Tony shouts. A second later, a shield bounces protectively around him, and the Hulk bodily throws a handful of aliens at the one who raises a gun at Tony.  

Tony safety dashes into the Quinjet. He retrieves his suit and encases himself in the armour, before rushing out to join the fight. 

Some half an hour later, when the battle is winding down, Natasha emerges from the side alley, helping Purple Shoes limp across the street. They’re both littered with gashes and scratches, but they’re leaning on one another, not trying to brutally murder each other. That’s good, Tony supposes. Progress.

“You’re both alive then,” Tony says. 

He thinks about apologising for abandoning Natasha back there, but she had seemed so sure, hadn’t called for backup. They both know that if Tony had tried to step in, Purple Shoes would’ve torn him viciously apart.

“Thank you for not interfering,” Natasha murmurs to him as the pair limps past. Instantly, Tony’s guilt is lifted. Louder, she says, “Everyone, this is Clint. He’s a friend.”

The group eyes Purple Shoes silently. (His eyes are suspiciously wet and puffy; no one mentions it.)

“Hi,” Tony says. “Thanks for not killing me back there.”

“Erm,” Clint says. He looks tired, dazed. Confused. “Your welcome? Hello to you too?” 

An overwrought girl with wild curls pokes her head around the corner of a side alley. Her glasses are askew and smeared with dirt, her fringe sweaty and standing up at odd angles. She searches the street for the sign of a threat. 

“Are the freaky aliens gone yet?” she calls, loud enough for the scattered heroes to here. 

“They’re gone!” Natasha shouts back. 

“Oh, thank god!” The girl emerges fully from behind her brick cover. Steve recognises her immediately; she’s one of the first people he’d run into after the adults had fallen. Darcy.

She spots him, grins in realisation, and waves.

“Hey, red, white, and blue!” she calls. “Yo, Steve, over here!”

Steve jogs over. Younger kids begin to emerge shyly from the alley, following Darcy. They huddle behind Darcy’s legs, peering up at Steve with big eyes. He counts four, all of them younger than five, all of them relatively unharmed. 

“Are you all okay?” Steve asks quickly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Darcy says airily. “I wouldn’t let them get hurt. I’m the best babysitter, even during freaky alien invasions.” She frowns. “Well. _Jane’s_ the best, but I’m her second-in-command during these trying times, so. I’m kick-ass too.”

“Anyway,” she continues, waving her hands as though to dispel her previous words from the air, “how is the world saving going?”

“Good?"

“I can hear the question mark.” She’s smirking at him, amused. Joking. During their first encounter, when Steve had promised her a solution, she hadn’t taken him seriously. Still doesn’t, most likely. Still, she’s nice, a few years younger than him, with a winning sense of humour and a driving need to protect others. Steve can see them being friends, maybe. One day. 

“C’mon,” Darcy says, “how is it really going? You can tell me, strips and stars. Captain Patriotism. Mr America. _Captain Amer_ —OH, MY GOD.”

She was listing off nicknames, pulling apart words and slotting them together, making harmless jokes about Steve’s strange, brightly coloured costume. His cowl is pushed down. He’s able to spot the moment she recognises his face by the way her eyes go huge.

“Oh, my god,” Darcy says again. She squints at him, beginning to recognise him from the old, famous newsreels. “You’re _him_ , aren’t you?! The real deal…” 

Steve rubs the back of his neck, rueful. “Yeah, I am.”

“You’re supposed to be dead. Oh, my god, if you’re the real deal, then you’re really trying to save the city, aren’t you? And that means…” She peers around him, catching sight of Steve’s makeshift teammates, who’d been previously blocked from view by his freakishly broad shoulders, and then turns and shouts, “Jane! I think your boyfriend is saving the world again!” 

Steve hadn’t noticed, but in his absence, other teenagers and children were beginning to pour out of the crumbling building blocks, out of alleys, stepping out of half destroyed storefronts. Places they’d taken refuge when the hoard of aliens had come close. The majority are younger kids, a few older teenagers scattered throughout. Only two girls wear bright blue bandanas tied around their right forearm, marking them leaders.  

One is Darcy, the bright bandana obvious against her jean jacket. The second is another girl—dirty blonde hair, about fifteen, attending to a child’s scrapped knee across the street. She lifts a hand to her forehead to block the sun from her eyes, squinting at them. “Darcy, what?” 

“Call Thor here,” Darcy orders. Steve obeys. He would wonder how Darcy knew he was associated with Thor, if he hadn’t personally known the blond. If there’s a battle, if there are other superhuman warriors, Thor is likely to be by their side, fighting for a brighter day. He has one of those personalities. It’s one of the many things Steve admires about him. 

Thor drops to the street only moments later, frowning at Steve. “I’m afraid I lost sight of Loki once more. Have you seen him, shield brother?”

Steve winces. “Not quite, but—”

“Thor!” 

Darcy grins, throws her arms open wide. Thor lights up when he sees her. Dropping his hammer, he bounds over and scoops the shorter girl up.  

“ _Oof_! Hey, big guy.”

“Lady Darcy,” Thor says. He hasn’t called any of the others ‘lord’ or ‘lady’, so Steve assumes the title isn’t because of cultural differences, but a nickname, used because of how it makes Darcy smile.

“Good to see you too, Your Highness.” 

Across the street, Jane has climbed to her feet, eyes huge. “Thor!” she calls, running over. Thor drops Darcy gently and bodily lifts Jane off the ground, spinning her around like a prince out of a movie. 

Thor releases Jane. Flat-footed on the street, he leans down to kiss her chastely, and murmur against her lips, “Hello, again.” 

“Hello,” Jane says breathlessly. 

“I missed you,” Thor admits.

“I missed you, too,” Jane says. 

“Oh, my god,” Darcy says. “You’ve only been apart a _few days._ Do you have to be so _gross?”_

Tony eyes them both, scowling. Natasha smirks knowingly at his side.

“Any moment away from my lady,” Thor declares, taking Jane’s small hand in his, rubbing a thumb over the back of her knuckles, “is a moment wasted.” He kisses her palm softly, and she sighs, dreamily. 

Darcy pretends to gag. Some of the other children are watching the romantic display with disgusted expressions.

“Like I said,” Natasha tells Tony, “he has more game than you.”

“What are you doing in New York?” Jane asks. She still cannot pry her gaze away from Thor. He, too, looks smitten, completely overwhelmed by the girl before him. “I thought you went after your brother after you got your powers back.”

“Aye. He lead me here. I did not know you were here, however.”

“I received an internship with Oscorp. Darcy tagged along.” 

Tony makes another unhappy expression. “Thor, you’re dating someone who works at _Oscorp_? I have lost all respect for you. You are officially uninvited to my ‘we saved the world’ after party.”

“Sourpuss,” Natasha teases. Tony makes a face at her.

“Yeah, cheer up, buttercup!” The voice echoes from above them. Tony’s head snaps up. His eyes narrow, and glares outright at the red and blue figure hanging upside-down from a streetlight.

“ _You_ ,” Tony says.

“Me,” Spider-Kid agrees. “Thanks for the donuts, by the way. They were _delicious_.”

“You brat—” Tony jumps, swiping open hands at Spidey. The gesture misses the younger boy by several metres. Spidey flips himself over Tony’s head, summersaulting mid-air, and landing beside Darcy in a crouch.

Spidey lifts his mask to his nose, and blows a raspberry. Tony lunges for him a second time.

“No fighting!” Darcy demands, glaring hotly at Tony. “I need my assistant!” 

“But the thief—” Tony says. Everyone ignores him. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be scouting the perimeter?” Darcy questions, and makes shooing motions with her hands. “Go on, skedaddle!” Spidey groans, but obeys, leaping back into the air.  

Steve watches Spidey swing away, before surveying Darcy with an impressed look. “What?” she says. “You think I don’t know about perimeter watching? I don’t want to get mine or any one else’s face eaten off by alien uglies.”

Steve watches as Darcy marches away, all expressive hand gestures and fluffy curls. She seems to come alive like this, slipping into her role of leader easily. Steve had thought Jane might be the leader of the operations, but Darcy seems to run the majority of it. Steve is thoroughly impressed. 

Darcy is a commanding presence despite her tiny statue. She directs the flow of teenagers and children. Some of the older teenagers—some older even than Darcy or Steve—take orders directly from her. She repeats commands, points or shoos them off in other directions, to shepherd children from place to safe place, or calm groups, or to collect food and water and medical supplies. 

“Where are you heading to, Captain?” she asks, after she hurries a fifteen year old towards his assigned group of children. 

Steve grins a little, and shrugs. “I’ll listen to your leadership, Miss Darcy.”

“Well, then,” she says, “collect up the rest of your boy band, and follow me.”

Steve relays the directions to the other Avengers via the comms Natasha had rustled up, found tucked away in the back of the Quinjet. “Where are we going?” he asks.

She smiles, huge and promising. “To the Base,” she says, and strides purposefully into the city. The height difference between them is huge, but even with long legs, Steve struggles to catch up.

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the Avenger’s absence, Darcy and Jane had been repeatedly scoping out the city for any children left unattended. They’d gather groups of them and escort them to a make-shift base. They had made home in a bank—secure, with thick walls—and left children and older, care-taking teenagers in the safety of the enclosed walls. 

It’s been a mere 10 hours since the adults in New York were rendered unconscious, and hardly 4 since the sky opened up and aliens poured out. Already, the bank is a shell of its former self, furniture pushed to the sides. They’ve done their best to clear away the broken glass, and pile the splittered furniture into safe piles. Hazardous as this Base may be, it’s safe, and devoid of hostile alien life.

It’s post-apocalyptic; it’s a war zone; it’s familiar. This, Steve knows.

“Use the planks of broken furniture to board up the windows,” he instructs. He eyes the toddlers gathered in loose circle, kept entertained by high school kids. They would’ve been snatched up easily by the aliens, helpless against the ruthless hoards. He feels ill at the thought.  

“We have to protect civilians,” Steve says. 

Spider-Kid follows him obediently, keenly listening to his every word. He’s a tiny ball of energy, a visible skip to his step. “I know. That’s why I put on the suit,” Spider-Kid says. “Lots of kids went missing at my school, and—and I knew, when I got these powers, I knew I had to do something about it. I have a responsibility.” 

He’s just a boy, but still, Steve can see the fight in him, the determination, the need to protect. Tony refuses to interact with him—“Tiny thief! Steve, stop communicating with a known criminal!”—still sore over the loss of his donuts. Natasha regards him wearily, muttering something about child soldiers. 

Steve personally likes Spidey. Worries about him, but likes him.

“When the battle comes, stay with the kids. Something hostile comes too close, you take them out.” Steve gestures at the Avengers, spaced throughout the makeshift camp. “When the rest of us have gone to fight Loki, you’re the one capable of protecting the others.”

Spidey nods seriously. Steve has no doubt he will protect these kids with everything he has. 

In the background, where she was certainly eavesdropping, Darcy perks up, affronted. “Hey! What about me and my taser of destruction, huh?” 

Steve stares at her. Spidey says, a little nervously, “Taser of _what_?”

“Thor!” Darcy hollers. 

Thor bounds over, two giggling little kids scooped in one arm, his other hand holding an upside Clint by the ankle. 

Thor smiles. “Yes, Lady Darcy?”

Steve turns from Darcy to stare incredulously at Thor and the crowd of children covering him. Namely, Clint, held aloft by an ankle.

Clint’s smile looks strange on his upside-down face. He waves at them. “Hi, guys.”

Darcy doesn’t even pay Clint a glance. She addresses Thor, gesturing toward Steve and Spider-Kid, “Tell them how deadly my taser is!” 

Thor nods, serious. “Oh, aye. She taser-ed me on our first meeting. It was very painful.” 

“Please don’t leave me with her,” Spidey says to Steve.

Darcy slides over to Spider-Kid, looping an arm around his neck. She’s taller than him, eye level with the top of his head, and he almost disappears into the fluffy mass of her curls. Darcy grins.

“ _Please_ don’t leave me with her,” Spidey repeats, voice muffled beneath all that hair. 

“Hush,” she admonishes, “we’re partners in this babysitting adventure-mess. Or, well, I’m partners with Jane, who mostly runs this thing, and I’m her second in command and you’re… well, you’re in footie PJs, so you’re like our assistant.”

“ _What_?” Spidey tries, but Darcy shushes him and snakes her arms around him tighter, like a cobra, ignoring his protesting whimpers.

“By assistant, I mean slave,” Darcy says. 

They all laugh a little, the children scattered nearest giggling, until Clint looks up and sobers. He untangles himself from Thor’s grip easily, flipping himself flat-footed to the ground. Clint says over Steve’s shoulders, “What’s happened, Nat?”

Natasha stands at the top of the broken escalators, gun in hand. “Another wave of alien forces breached the worm hole. Way more than last time. A lot more. And they’re still coming.” 

“The mother ship?” Clint asks. Steve sighs, because _really_. His life now involved alien mother ships, apparently.

Natasha nods. “Someone call Tony and Bruce over,” Steve orders, already striding to the top of the the stairs, the highest part of the Base, to survey the area. Some of the older kids have clued in to what’s happening, and look grimly at Steve.

There are so many minors here, dozens, hundreds maybe. Steve catches Spidey’s eye—the boy having clawed free of the octopus grip Darcy had on him—and cocks his head toward the doors. Spidey nods once, and jumps up into the roof, where he perches upon a rafter, ears and eyes focussed keenly. Good. The kids will be safe under his watch.

He looks out at the Avengers. Natasha stands solemnly at his side; Thor has collected Mjolnir, and Clint hovers behind him, quiver thrown over his back; Bruce and Tony stand at the ready, the shorter biting at his lip, the other working his armour on with a frown. Steve’s team.

“Let’s get to work,” Steve says.

(“Couldn’t you have said something cool and momentous?” Tony complains as they head for the Quinjet. “Something like—I don’t know, _congregate!_ Or, _to me, heroes!_ Or… _Assemble!_ ”

“That’s dumb,” Natasha says.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I’d never say anything like that.”)

  

* * *

 

 

“I thought my life couldn’t get any weirder,” Tony says, as he swerves between gunfire, “but apparently? I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

“How is this stranger than aliens?” Steve asks. Tony holds him to his chest, and Steve’s clutches at the metal armour tightly. There’s nothing but air and the odd hostile alien between him and the concrete ground.

“I’m holding _Captain America_ in my arms,” Tony says. “I’m carrying Captain America _princess style_ through a city wide battle against _aliens_ to save the _planet_. Sorry, if I’m a little weirded out, Steve! Not all us punched Hitler in the face before our 16th birthday.”

“ _Weak_ , Stark,” Clint heckles on the comm. 

A moment later, they fly past the archer. He’s perched on the edge of a building, bow pulled taut in his expert grip. As they pass by, Clint flips them off.

Tony tries to raise an arm to return the gesture. Steve’s grip on his arms tighten. “Don’t you dare let go of me,” Steve says.

“Another wave coming through,” Natasha cuts in.

“We are losing,” Thor says, gravely. 

“We’re six teenagers,” Tony snaps. Above them, the sky is ripping itself open once more. More ships pour from the vortex’s swirling mouth, like ants swarming from a drowning nest. “ _Of course_ we’re losing.”

A war cry interrupts him. Tony swoops lower, and chokes on a laugh; Darcy stands on the bonnet of a car, one fist in the air, curls blowing dramatically behind her. 

Steve has a moment of panic—has the Base fallen? Have the younger children been harmed?—but Tony curves, adjusting his flight as though he’s had the same thought. They catch sight of the Base, and it’s in one piece, still barricaded tightly shut. Steve can see Spider-Kid guarding the only entrance with a steely focus. Any aliens that drift closer are met with a joke and a face full of web. 

On street level, Darcy is surrounded by other teenagers. Some hold baseball bats. Several are holding huge water guns. Some are holding real guns, or gripping mace and pocket knifes with clenched fists. They watch the street around them and each other’s backs, determination clear in their faces. 

New York has always been a little rough, Steve knows, but dammit if this city doesn’t protect its own.  

(Steve would be worried their safety, but Clint sits on the building above them. His eyes may be bloodshot, his mind still a little fractured, but his aim is true.)

“BE AT ARM, LIEUTENANTS!” Darcy commands. She wields a lighter and a can of hairspray, two spare deodorants cans strapped to her belt. Steve is confused up until the moment she clicks the lighter to life, positions the hairspray behind the flame, and creates a swirling typhoon of fire. Then, he is very, very afraid. 

“It’s not just the six of us,” Steve says to Tony. “It’s not just our city. It’s their’s, too.”

“It’s not even my city,” Tony grumbles. “I live in fucking Malibu.”

 

* * *

 

 

In this universe, SHIELD is unconscious for the entirety of the Battle of New York. No one is able to send a bomb, and no one needs to die.

In this universe, the day isn’t saved in a dramatic display of heroism and a rippling explosion in space, but through stealth. 

The Avengers come together were the fighting is thickest, back to back, weapons held high. Darcy and her cohort have fallen back to defend the Base but the six remain.  

They throw all their energy into drawing the most attention, giving it their all until their limbs ache and bruises litter their bodies.

In the middle of it, Natasha slips away quietly. Nearby, the Empire Building stands—the tallest building in the city, the only option—and she picks her way up it, toward the machine at the very top. Loki has already begun to disintegrate. His small body can’t contain the raw power of the tesseract, and blue energy has seeped through the city. Thor was never chasing Loki. He had always been chasing the thing that was killing Loki. 

Loki—small body already beginning to rip apart—doesn’t even notice Natasha pad silently past him. 

Natasha makes quick work of the machine. With only the simple flick of her wrist, the portal is cinched closed, and the battle is brought to a quiet, almost anticlimactic end.

 

* * *

 

The sounds of gunfire and violence have long since died away. The surrounding asphalt is drenched with blood, most of it alien, some of it belonging to the thousands of unconscious adults that fell in unfortunate places.

Silence prevails. Loki has disappeared. The Chitauri are gone.

Thor is on his knees, one hand fisted in his blond hair, the other braced against his racing heart. The demigod will not feel the true depth of his loss for days; now, there is nothing but numbed shock and the sudden, racing realisation that Asgard holds nothing for him now.  

He palms the rough, damp ground, and is reassured by how sturdy it is, how real and present it is. This planet, full of so many surprising and wonderful creatures—namely, his new human friends—continues. Earth continues.

Thor decides that he too will find a way to keep going. Somehow.

“Holy fuck,” Tony says. The suit is half blown off him, and he is too tired to try and pry off the other half. Spread eagle on the ground, he pants and stares wide-eyed at the blue, blue sky above. 

“Holy fuck,” Steve agrees. 

Bruce is asleep in the rubble. Someone has thrown a ripped shirt over his privates, affording him some decency.

Clint stands sloppily, stumbling like a newborn fawn. He bangs on his head with his palm and tilts it to the side, as though he has water in his ears. His eyes are sharp and clear, no trace of fog.

“Whaaaa?” Clint slurs. 

Tony raises a hand, opens his mouth to greet the boy archer, but is cut off when Clint’s head snaps up, eyes going wide with clarity. He lets out a cry like he’s been stabbed in the gut.  

Clint scrambles over the wreckage. He throws himself at the rubble, clawing at it desperately.

“No!” Clint says. It isn’t quite a shout, more like a howl rising from the belly of a wounded animal. “No— _NO_!”

The archer is choking now. The words stumbling from his lips cannot be called words, they are too incoherent. Clint’s lungs will not work in the face of such grief, constricting, spasming in his chest. He is quickly working himself into a blind panic.

“Clint,” Steve says. He doesn’t really know Clint, but he trusts the things Natasha has said about him. Brave. Dependable. Worth something. “Clint, what is it?”

Tony’s on the other side of Clint, exhaustion forgotten. One hand hovers over Clint’s thin, panting chest.

“C’mon, kid,” Tony murmurs. “Just breathe, come on, take a deep breath with me—”

Clint shakes his head furiously. “No—!”

“Clint,” Steve says quietly.

“‘Tasha,” Clint chokes out. “Na-nuh—“ 

Tony follows his line of sight, and sees what the archer was blooding his knuckles to reach. Long rusty hair, a beautiful curtain against the mountain of destruction; a building had collapsed here, one of the few structures they weren’t able to save. The people inside were crushed under the weight. 

She isn’t even visible, just that red hair curled and soft even in death, peeking out beneath the rubble.

“Natasha,” Clint murmurs. His face scrunches up in pain, and the sobs that were caught in his throat claw free. He’s wailing, loud, shameless cries of pain and panic. “Nuh—nata—Natasha!”

His cry is answered; “CLINT!”

Clint freezes. He inhales one, ragged breath. 

“ _CLINT_!”  

Clint scrambles upward, wrenching forward so violently he stumbles on loose rock and skins his knees bloody. He doesn’t even pause, racing toward the sound of her voice.

Natasha sprints into view, gun in hand, ready to take on whatever is hurting Clint. She spots Clint, seems confused and alarmed at the tears drying on his cheeks, and doesn’t resist when he tackles her to the ground. 

His face, buried in the crook of her neck, is muffled. He has a mouthful of her hair.  

He’s injured and exhausted, and she must be too, but they just clutch at each other, grabs fistful of the others clothes or hair and holds on tight. 

“You’re okay,” Clint says.

“I was in the Empire Building, remember?” she says. “That’s streets away, Clint.” 

“I know, but—I just—I saw—”

“I know,” Natasha says. “I’m okay. You’re okay.”  

“We’re okay,” Clint says, amazed, voice thick with disbelief. “We—we did okay.”

“We did more than okay,” Tony pipes up. He’d seen the two of them like this before, but then, they were trying to tear each other apart. Now, they are trying to hold each other together. 

They aren’t clawing or biting now. Limbs interwoven, they are open-palmed hands touching faces and arms, checking one another for injuries. 

Thor looks on, worn. “Aye, it was a hard battle,” he admits. He is young for an Asgardian, barely out of his childhood, and hasn’t seen many battles before. Definitely nothing of his magnitude. “We have done well.”

“‘Done well?’” Tony says. “We’ve done _awesome_!”  

Something explodes in the distant. 

“Awesome?” Steve asks. The Captain is clutching at his side, grimacing with pain. 

“Awesome.” A second explosion detonates, this one closer and louder than the first. “ _Awesome_ ,” Tony stresses.  

The lull in their conversation should be filled only with their heavy, exhausted breathing, and Clint’s wet sniffles, but it is not. New York stirs around them, and the Avengers are surrounded by distant sounds—the steady crackling of fires, the panicked, confused shouts of adults, the whirring of sirens. A city waking up.

The Avengers glance around them at the wrecked street. The full magnitude of what has transpired is only beginning to hit them. 

“We should bounce,” Tony says. He tears off the heaviest parts of his armour and stumbles into the nearby clothing store, picking through broken glass to collect a pair of pants and a shirt and sneakers. Tony hands the bundle of clothes to Bruce, helping the younger boy stand on shaky, naked legs, then turning away to give Bruce some semblance of privacy as he dresses.

“I’m starving, especially since someone stole my donuts—and _yes_ , hard feelings, if I ever see that red and blue twerp again, I’m going to kick his ass.” Tony shakes his head, dislodging some of the dust and tiny pieces of debris that had settled in his hair. “I’m so hungry I could eat Thor. We should get food, do you want to get food? We deserve food.” 

Tony’s chatter, though borderline hysteric, fills the silence, gives them something solid to focus on rather than the ruins around them. For this, they’re grateful. 

“There’s this stuff called Sharwama—” 

Bruce, now fully dressed in clothes too big for him, points at the Pizza place to their right. 

“Oh,” Tony says, shoulders slumping in disappointment. “But Sharwama—”

“What ever happened to being hungry enough to eat Thor?” Steve asks from where he’s helping Natasha and Clint to their feet. 

“Okay, okay,” Tony grumbles, “we can get pizza, but one of these days, mark my words. Sharwama, Rogers. Sharwama.”

They find four large pizzas that were being kept warm in the store’s ovens. There are only three people inside the joint, all of them passed out and uninjured. Steve grabs the pizzas while Natasha and Bruce each grab an armful of water and gatorade and various sodas. (Tony plucks a pen and a stack of sticky-notes from the counter, and scribbles out, _IOU — Tony Stark._ )

There are dazed adults beginning to stumble around when the teenagers remerge on the street. 

“We are not dealing with this,” Natasha decides. “Thor, you can fly, right?”

Thor’s confirmation has barely left his lips, and already Natasha and Clint are climbing onto the blond. Thor doesn’t seem confused or weirded out, but instead grips them tight, so they they won’t slide off. He looks surprisingly casual for someone being used as a jungle gym. 

“Rooftop, big guy,” Natasha instructs, one arm around Thor’s shoulders, the other cradling half a dozen bottles and cans to her chest.  

Tony manages to follow with Bruce on spluttering repulser boots, but Tony is too small; Thor has to return for Steve and the pizzas. Tony pretends not to be insecure about his inferior height. (He’s only 17, he’ll grow. He’s going to have a growth spurt, and then he’ll be twice as tall, just you watch! Tony will be the tallest Avenger one day. He will.) 

They rendezvous on a deserted rooftop several blocks away.  

“Aw yeah,” Clint says. “Prepare yourself for the fanciest mother-friggin’ picnic this side of Manhattan.” 

“A what-nic?” Thor asks. 

Clint gapes at him, and then spends longer than perhaps necessary explaining what exactly a picnic is to Thor. By the end, the demigod is grinning.  

“This picnic, is it something to be shared with friends?” Thor asks. 

“And family,” Clint agrees. 

Thor’s nod is solemn despite the silly grin stretched upon his face. He unhooks his majestic red cape—miraculously undamaged after the battle—and lays it flat upon the ground.

“It does not have white plaid stripes,” Thor says. “Will it suffice as a picnic blanket?”

Tony is already moving to flop down upon it, but Natasha catches him around the wrist, stopping him. “Thor,” Natasha says. “This is a royal Asgardian cape.”

“This,” Clint says, pointing at the crimson fabric, the thick, pure red a stark contrast against the dirty rooftop, “is literally the most majestic piece of clothing I’ve ever seen.”

“We can’t get pizza all over it,” Natasha says. 

“We’re messy eaters,” Clint adds, nodding. “Like, really. Simply atrocious.” 

Thor shakes his head. “I care not about that. We have fought bravely, this day. You…” Thor looks around at them, his face open and sincere. It is strange to them, to see someone so rawly emotional without all the gusto and bravo the others are accustomed to. “You have become my family this day. We have forged strong, lifelong bonds through a battle hard won. Let us celebrate that, with your horrible food and hard floors.” 

“Did you just call greasy pizza HORRIBLE?” Tony asks. Steve looks greatly offended, and Clint splutters, indignant.

The team demolishes the pizzas. They sit criss-cross around the boxes, drinking soda and shoving pizza into their faces, the half destroyed New York a comforting blanket around them—it is something quiet and close. Something bonding. 

Half an hour later, Clint is asleep against Natasha, Steve asleep against Thor, Bruce curled around an empty bottle of sprite, snoring lightly. Natasha looks like opening her eyes after each blink is an uphill battle, and slowly, slowly drifts off, until she too is asleep. Thor is staring at them all, something like fondest blooming in his eyes.

“Today was a struggle,” Thor’s deep voice rumbles. It is deeper than any teenager’s has the right to be, Tony thinks with what is most certainly not jealously. 

“We fought _aliens_ ,” Tony tells him. “Of course it was.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Today, we fought against ourselves and each other. Many fears were overcome for the good of the innocent people in this city. That—that is what makes me proud to call you my family.”

Tony shrugs, just a little. Exhaustion is beginning to creep up on him, too. Tony relaxes a little, letting the tension built up in his aching limbs settle.

“We did what we had to,” Tony says. “No matter the cost, right? If any of you had to, you would have lied down on the wire, jumped in front of a bullet, would’ve—I don’t know—flown a nuke into space. Done the right thing.” 

Thor smiles. Tony feels like he’s passed some sort of test. The past 24 hours has been full of tests Tony hadn’t even realised he was sitting. “I look forward to our future battles, friend Tony. Truly, I have found myself lucky, to be amongst you all.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Tony says, voice half slurred with sleep. He smiles, just a little, and murmurs, “I look forward to it, too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing these guys. I tried to maintain their canon characterisation while still changing some aspects due to their age—some more than others, especially in the case of Tony, who’s far, far more inexperienced in this.
> 
> This fic (and the 'verse that exists half-formed in my drafts folder and in myhead) has been in the works for over a year. I have headcanons on all of their backgrounds, and how they come together post-Battle of NY. Whether I’ll be bother to expand on this and upload it, is yet to be seen.
> 
> I didn't think I would ever finish and upload this, honestly. A lot of time and frustration has gone into this. Feedback is very much appreciate. :)


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